Human-Proof
by Chamomile Pool
Summary: A science fiction adaption of Notre Dame de Paris that I wrote a few years ago.
1. Clicks and Triggers

Clicks and Triggers

Clean-cut and ergonomically designed, the uppermost floor of the Citadel was graciously built and reserved for this one individual, made obvious through the simple details of it, from the entrance's awkward shape to the high ceiling. The four walls, the floor, and a large majority of the sparse scenery within the room were all given a silvery tone, much like the rest of the Citadel. The building was constructed as such that, with the exception of this attic and a few other select rooms, every area looked identical to every other area, so much so that it was easy to get lost in the building and wander seemingly without end from hall to hall, from room to room, and from elevator to elevator.

Like any respectable building of its type, the Citadel was used to protect the citizens who surrounded it. The building, which carved into the sky and rose above the cloudy loft, was lodged in the most densely populated region of the planet Paria, a location subject to human migration and centuries later the horrors and tied-in blisses of being forgotten by the rest of humanity. The climate was very much like that of the original Earth, and so it was an ideal nesting spot. A recent census conducted by the FFC estimated population of Paria to be that of about a billion heads. It was a fraction of what Earth's population had been like, back when it was not a dilapidated cesspool, but Paria was fittingly a much smaller world by comparison.

Crowding became an issue, so buildings were made taller, and the Citadel dared to go higher than any other building, even the government facilities, to assert its authority. The Citadel protected its citizens, but not just militarily. It protected people from the scourge of _sin_. It was the mightiest mega-church ever dreamed of, with countless individuals keeping it all in perfect, working order.

The attic housed a lethargic beast, about which rumors had begun to leak. He was the subject of the tabloid's interest and attracted more attention in the culture's speculatory sect than any other individual or topic of the day. A video had been shot of a shadowy figure looming at the top of the Citadel, glaring out the window– and the fastidiousness of one journalist launched a phenomena.

Yet the one who roamed in the attic did not even know he had become so famous. No, in fact, he only knew of only one other apart from God who knew of his own existence, his father, televangelist John C. Rollof, figure head and head priest of the Citadel of Christ. Jesus had gone to space, and this man represented his most outspoken followers in Paria. He was the only man who Quentin knew, and he was also his own personal god. He knew to love him, and he knew to fear him; he knew his wrath, and he knew his grace; he knew that this man established the rules, and he also knew that this man was his liberation.

This is where the ink met the parchment, on a most notable morning, one week after Quentin became an oblivious celebrity. Creamy orange rays peaked in from cracks in the shades, providing soft light to guide a stumbling creature. Quentin tip-toed to the Main Computer, the primary processor for all the activities within the Citadel. Several other computers were in the top floor as well, the floor being also a mess of wires and cables, but the plain, square computer in the center of the room was where it all came together.

Messages were sent to it and transferred to the other corresponding computers, filtering out information as necessary, maintaining appropriate energy supplies by keeping the computers on adequate power. The main power source, an energy unique to the planet Paria, found in wells beneath the crust, was drawn from underneath the Citadel and put to the most holy of uses imaginable.

With a flick of his pudgy finger, the Main Computer started up with a low rumble, and when his nail tapped at the screen, it flickered to life. This was an archaic machine, streamlined to be tossed out to space like all other garbage. The technology in the attic might have been replaced long ago, but it was concluded that when a man is surrounded by simplicity, he would decidedly develop a simple mind. A password was requested by the computer, and it was typed in:

H-A-L-F-F-O-R-M-E-D

Quentin's sole reason for existence was to maintain the energy levels of all of Paria. Aside from a few rogue, alternative suppliers, it was the Citadel that controlled the vast electrical systems in this world, either directly or in a more obscure manner. John Rollof, then, had stationed upon his shoulders the mass of not only his own ideas, but the ideas of an entire civilization. Under such pressure, a man might crack, but he knew not to, that hesitance or any faltering on his part could be catastrophic.

Two decades prior, John Rollof was merely an inspired young man with hopes of freeing Paria from the Enemy's chains. He was a commanding officer of the infantile Brigade, the military that the people of Paria had demanded at the polls. A whip was to be cracked down upon the escalating criminal spawn in this new world, and only those with ambition like that of Rollof were willing to take on such a burdensome task.

On one occasion, John Rollof had been assigned the task of eliminating a family of heretics– and worst of all, they were Atheists, too– by his superiors. After sending his troops inside the household, he gave fatal orders; he had the men open fire. Swiftly they were exterminated, and when Rollof took a whiff of the air, he smelt not only the stench of burning corpses, but also the overflowing evil putridity of a family who had not known God's love.

Some of his soldiers would testify now that John Rollof had at the time said, "We gave them no judgment greater than the one God will give them now. May He grant swift mercy upon their immortal souls." Others would claim that Rollof whispered cautiously, "Lord, forgive us for today's sins." One of the soldiers who had been there, who had recently been locked up on the charge of having dealings with the black market, fervently claimed that Rollof had been compliantly mute up until the point he saw the smallest, still-living body lying there, without even acknowledging the corpses as former human beings but instead as trash.

Quentin was but an infant lying in a terrified stupor within his crib. From his vantage point, he saw nothing but the ceiling, so he could only judge the recent happenings around him by what he heard. A knock on the door, a pound on window, the sound of a door crashing to the floor, broken glass, screams, threats, quotes of scripture, and then nothing– and Quentin was left fatherless, motherless, and without his two older siblings, who had been taking care of him.

It was when Rollof's ever-anxious eyes met with the dilated pupils of Quentin that realization shot through Rollof. He turned to face his men and say, "This child was not documented as part of the family. The information was clear and concise– he _cannot_ be here." Quentin, however, _was_ there, and a reexamination of their whereabouts confirmed that Rollof had made a horrendous mistake– he had given the correct orders, but they were in the wrong house.

An entire family had been vaporized for no just cause, and now an infant was on the brink of annihilation. The weapon that had been used against Quentin was a sort that mutilated cells and prevented the natural repairing of surrounding tissue and organs, and so a single blast had been capable of unleashing true carnage upon Quentin's small frame. Rollof knew that if he had been more careful, none of this would ever have occurred, so when the officer again, this time with greater hesitance, laid his eyes upon the twisting body of the wailing child, he took immediate, aching pity. "My Lord," He had murmured, "What have I done?" Rollof then scooped up Quentin and cradled him in his steady arms, before bolting out the door, in a mad rush to save Quentin's life.

Rollof rose to public fame not only for generously sparing the boy's life but also for paying for all of the steep medical expenses of his recovery. Sparks caused by the nearly fatal shot had done his eyes in, and thus he was given new eyes to look through, provided by inorganic science, not man. Because of the wrecked state of what remained of Quentin's body, almost his entire left upper torso had to be replaced with mechanics, giving him a fascinating, terrifying appearance. Despite becoming more machine than flesh after all the operations, so much so that even his face was a mess of wires, Quentin's heart had miraculously remained untouched by the beam's desolation and thus was transplanted into the individual's new frame, to be surrounded by microchips.

Although Quentin gained some moderate attention, Rollof claimed the bulk, and as the the now deformed child grew up in the recently constructed Citadel attic, he faded out of public awareness. Now there were whispers in the streets that this mysterious figure, looking out the window one week prior, was the very same spectacle who had contributed to the public's initial captivation with John Rollof.

There came a terrific knock at the door. "F-Father! I did not expect you for a-another hour!" Quentin exclaimed, as he turned to see his father's approach.

"You act as though you had seen a thief in the night," Rollof remarked, at ease as he strode forward, "But do not worry, it is only me, checking on you. Today is a very important day, you know, and I must make sure that everything is in proper order. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught unprepared for the Enemy's onslaughts."

Quentin gave a nervous nod before rushing about the room, to turn on the other computers one-by-one. "Quentin," Rollof whispered, catching him in the act of darting to another system, "You know how much I expect from you, my son... This should have all been done half an hour ago. Do I ask too much? You do realize that what I ask you to do is not for me, but for the Gospel, right? Do you stand against the Gospel? Have you succumbed to sloth? Remember: One who knows what it is right and does not do it, has sinned."

Again, Quentin gave a nod, this one more defeated. He forced himself to look at the thin relic, the man in his pure, white robe and muttered, "James 4:17. I know, Father, and I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again."

Rollof gave a kind smile and patted him on the back, whispering delicately, "No, you won't. Today is the dawn of Farceur-Con, and you know just as I do that it will lure out the insects that crawl beneath civility. I must do all that I can to draw their eyes away from fleshy pleasures and towards God. It is not an easy task– God's work never is – and I will need your help."

Quentin was beaming. He was worthy of helping his savior; he had actually been chosen by him out of all the others. "I- I'd be glad to help!" He stammered, relieved that his Father had not been more condescending towards him. "It would be a-an honor, to do this for the Lord," He thought aloud "You're too good to a wretch like me, Father." He rationalized now that it had been quite silly for him to have thought otherwise; in all the years Quentin had known Rollof, the man had never once laid a hand upon him in violence.

"More praise to you," Rollof said, "Heaven rewards those who give freely to the service He has entrusted me with. Let us then get to work, and quickly. I will lend you a hand in starting all of these machines up, at least for now. I have cleared up this time in my schedule just for _you_. Then I will leave for Farceur-Con. I must draw a larger audience than that blasphemous Clemond Oppei! He will have in his company vile adulterers, idolaters, homosexuals, and the dirtiest of sinners– but watch, Quentin. Watch who approach me, for they are the people God has parted from the secular Paria. Watch, Quentin, from this tower, your home for always, your personal safe haven, and be thankful for all that you have. Although undeserving, you have been given more than many down below could ever dream of. _Ah_, do you hear it? The computers are starting up, and they chime, for all of Paria! The sound of bells, on an audio file, the sound of a modern Hallelujah!"


	2. Spitting at Salvation

Spitting At Salvation

Israel and the Philistines were camped side-by-side at Farceur-Con, David poised and Goliath hungry for the audience. Paria had its score of major holidays and traditions, but Farceur-Con trumped them all– it was a colossal affair, a commercial rival to the ancient Christmas and the now extinct Easter.

There was no central main attraction at Farceur-Con, for everyone had their unique vice. For most, the preview screenings of coming-soon movies were a prime draw, while others found rapture in the synthesized musical shows, complete with fascinating light shows, voices auto-tuned to perfection, and hypnotic beats. The live debate between the Citadel and the FFC, however, was appreciated a by a modest following who held firmly onto hopes that one day the opponents would break out into a fist fight on stage.

In one corner, representing The Citadel, was televangelist John C. Rollof, and in the other corner, on behalf of the Freedom For The Future Covenant (FFC), there was Clemond Oppei.

While Rollof was of average height, average weight, and wore the simple garb of a modern priest, Oppei was a barrage of bizarre. Amid a mass populace that dressed uniformly light, he struck out as a lanky man in all black, a man with untamed hair. He wore as many accessories as possible, ranging from his red loosely-fastened tie to his various rings and bracelets, to his Tyrolean-style hat.

Clemond Oppei and the FFC had utilized Farceur-Con for their black market, which all substances made illegal by the government were sold in secret, a secret everyone was aware of. Rollof had other incentives for his audience's full attention to latch onto him. When the two superstars emerged to expecting crowds, they received equal applause. There were clear discrepancies between the members of each half; those there to see the Citadel's speaker were largely community elders and those who let platinum crosses dangle at their necks, while those who were to their right were typically younger and were the ones who could only afford to travel only by foot.

"Merry Nones of November to you all!" Oppei shouted over the crowd, his voice projected by a microchip on his collar the size of a pinhead, "I could have not have plucked a more delightful day for today's ceremony! Come, one and all, young and old, and lock arms with me and your eyes with this boring, old _geezer_–" Oppei rolled his eyes casually and pointed innocently to Rollof, "–and join the jubilee! The Farceur-Con comes but once a year, so soak it all up! Our vendors are all around me–"

Rollof seized the conversation. "Fellow Parians," he began from his side, in a more austere tone, "Thank you for standing with me today on this most grand occasion, a day possible only by the supreme grace of our God– Jesus Christ– to whom we pray today for love, mercy, and prosperity."

Oppei leaned towards the crowd, pointed at Rollof, and mock-whispered to the audience, "As if _he _doesn't prosper enough! But, yes, please– I'm sure the big man in the sky would like nothing more than to grant him _another _share of our world!"

Clemond sent a dash of resentment into the crowd, and once properly engaged, he continued, "Every year it's the same thing, isn't it? Johnny Boy here talks all about grace, love, mercy, blah, blah, blah, etc., but he fails to mention the rest of us, who haven't yet seen all of the wealth. Funny, ain't it? It'd be nice if he would share a little bit, but _of course_ not! The heavens have trusted him with oodles of our money, which unarguably he _stole_ righteously, and it would be a sin to take it back! Everything is a sin, when it doesn't help him and his church!"

The crowd looked for a response from Rollof, and one was promptly delivered. "What you are suggesting," he returned, "is theft. You would like nothing more than to have these people to sink into the depravity of your mold and take from me what I have rightly earned and been given, so you may in turn profit. Stealing, however, is a sin and a crime; do not fall for the trickery of this man! No matter what man's ends are, his means are not justified in the eyes of God when they are clearly and utterly wrong! Only by the grace of God can we be forgiven of our sins, past, present, and future. He has trusted me with salvation, to lead the Gospel into the heart of my own filthy generation, but half of you reject me and my teachings! How am I the fool– When this man here will so obviously lead you down a road to devastation? I am giving you the Truth, a message of hope. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness; he will have the light of life."

The spiteful and at times childish bickering reigned far below the Citadel's attic, but the whole Farceur-Con– in fact, nearly the entire city– could be viewed well from the top floor's many, fingerprint-riddled telescreens. From these lenses, from this tower, from the eyes of Quentin that were so meticulously forged by Mother Science, a testimony of Paria's faith was observed.

Every year he watched the proceedings of the Farceur-Con, even more closely than he so longingly watched the proceedings of any normal day. His heart beckoned him past the fogged up screens, past the smog and mossy-green gasses that weighed down the sky, and towards the people, to explore the Paria he had for so long seen only from above. His mind, however, was tugged on by thoughts of his master and of his master's words. "Do not be my Prodigal Son," Rollof had warned him earlier, before trotting off for the trenches below. Certainly he did not want to become that. Still, the very idea of meeting the sinners Rollof spoke often of was tantalizing.

"To see the faces I've never seen," he consoled himself in the frigid attic, "And to hear the voices I've never heard– if this is what is at stake, it is worth any consequence to venture out. My Father and God have protected me in here, and they will protect me out there. God is with all his children, no matter where they go, so as long as I'm gone for just a moment, no more, and return before an hour's passing, I will be safe. I cannot stay here, even if my Father wishes it; surely he'd understand, if he could feel what I feel and see how I see. Even the lowliest of creatures like me, a freak like me, knows there's more out there in this world than this." Perhaps it was a snake's devising, or perhaps it was the result of his humble curiosity, that cemented his plan. In any case, the notion of staying in this attic for the rest of his life was too difficult to follow through with.

It was not purely on impulse that Quentin fled the sanctuary provided for him; he moved after long-held conscious labor. During the weeks leading up to The Farceur-Con, he had been contemplating the potential punishments he might endure if he was caught out of his chambers. He knew the stakes well, yet far away notions of another sort triumphed. Down the stairs he now sent himself, scurrying past offices, going unnoticed through the whole maze of the Citadel. He had never been out of the attic, not since he was brought there twenty three years ago, so this was in itself quite an adventure. The elevator was elevating his spirits, the lowerings were liberating, and when he reached the base floor– How his heart did beat! He threw on a white coat lying upon the floor, size 2XXL, and hastily escaped.

"–end times are upon us! Repent now, and join the brotherhood of God's children!" There was weeping, and there was severe, excruciating, compliant annoyance. To voice certain concerns at a time like this was dangerous, unless you were one of the special exceptions, very much like the man erect upon the opposing stage.

"And repent of the wrongs you did not even commit, yes!" Oppei snarked, "But you're no different than me. Strange how you don't see me collapsing on my knees, eh? Maybe I don't feel trapped by sin or overwhelmed by the Devil; why, my friends, maybe I feel absolutely fantastic and higher than the angels!"

A small portion of the crowd on Oppei's side cheered and whistled at that remark, as their spokesman put on his best impression of a man smoking something invisible yet recognizable. "You see, I'm somewhere wedged between Fawkes and Montag," The FFC leader further explained, "Just an another guy like you." He slapped a sly smile on his face, amused at his own otherworldly wit, a humor understood more on Rollof's side than his own.

The two never lost their ability to spark, and the audience was quick to react. Although the conversation was largely above the people's heads at times, they responded well to emotion and other stimuli. It always helped that three quarters of the total audience– extracted from the sum of Rollof's and Oppei's– was intoxicated in some manner.

When Quentin inserted himself into the jumbled mass, he heard Oppei say, "Boys and girls, I do have one last, big surprise for you all! For those of you keeping score at home, stay glued to your screens, mobile or home-based, for we are about to award one lucky crowd member with the chance of a lifetime!"

There was clear interest in the mysterious proposal. "One of you will become the star of their own entertainment program, to be broadcasted through all of Paria, one which I will personally direct and fund. In addition, my friends, the one who draws the winning lot– man or woman –will be rewarded with a dream date with the lovely and talented actress, Essence!"

From the mass around the stage came a woman dressed loosely in a vibrant red dress, top cut low. She had the ideal frame– Thin but not emaciated, curved but not excessively so. In her line of work, image was experience, and she was a sage of the screen, winning awards for countless films and their consequential sequels. Quentin felt drops of sweat, everywhere.

"With every donation given to one of my people," Oppei began anew, "You will receive a chance to win according size to your contribution. A machine will sort all of the entries and pick one winner. The more you pledge, the more chances you have to win. Don't keep Essence waiting; she hates a tease!"

There were several snickers from men and women at this prospect. Now all they had to do was track down someone from the FFC. "Look for the hats!" Oppei exclaimed, before raising his hat demonstratively. All at once, so many as 1,000 people lifted up black hats identical to Clemond's, all throughout the area. A mad race began.

"Now, now!" A flustered Rollof rattled off, trying to salvage a depleting audience, "Listen here! You are gambling with your souls! Do not forfeit money that could be used for the Lord for some misguided woman!" Rollof snapped a glare over at Essence, who had begun to dance upon the stage, provocatively. The money came pouring in, and with one eyebrow arched, Rollof continued to watch the woman, wondering how one mere individual could bring so much corruption, so fast.

This was the first female Quentin had seen since he last laid eyes his own mother, and he had long-since forgotten her. Essence was more than a scheme, too; to him, she was perfection. Her emerald eyes, like the lights of the Main Computer during its startup, shone in such a way that they must have been sent from Heaven. She had the power of a righteous warrior, but she had the grace of an angel, and Quentin wanted to understand her.

He tracked down a man from the FFC, who aimed a scanning gun at Quentin's outstretched palm. A red laser light trailed across his fingertips, and the man asked, "Name? And how much?" Quentin offered an alias and thought back to his master's words; he recalled the sum Rollof had put into his emergency account and offered it all. He was thanked cautiously, by an individual all-too curious about the one from whom he had just accepted money. Quentin had his hood up, so his face was shrouded in at least a moderate amount of shadow, but nothing could the awkward manner in which he walked. In such a large group, however, he was able to go unnoticed by his supervisor.

Rollof was unable to contain his audience, who broke away from him now, when he wanted their money most. He was losing. "Stop this debauchery!" He pleaded, still stiff and stagnant, but the flamboyant Oppei was quick to stop his rival's intervention.

"Only a few more minutes left!" Oppei shouted, so that all of Paria could hear him, "Don't miss your chance to be in the drawing!"

There was not a single FFC representative who went idle for more than a minute during the madness, and at the end of it all, countless names were taken multiple times, some names stretched so far as to have earned hundreds of individual chances. All of those potential winners were programmed into an application that, randomly, would proclaim one winner. Oppie had the device in hand; the sound of a drum roll was produced in the background, from another small device.

"Gentlemen, gentleladies, and all those in-between and possibly confused," Oppei began, "If you would hush up, _please_! We have ourselves a winner." A malicious grin carved into Oppei's face, as a hum fell over the crowd. He held the device up high, straining his eyes to read nearly illegible print. "Would the one known as... The Prodigal Son...? Yes, would the Prodigal Son please step onto the stage, please?"

Quentin inched himself forward, only to be pushed on stage by an impatient crowd, into the figurative spotlight. The cameras were all on him; his image was streamed live all across Paria, and in the midst of it all, Rollof could only speculate until a gust of wind strong enough to blow back a cheap coat's hood mustered itself into existence. The face of Quentin was then revealed, for all the world to know.


	3. The Drowning Man

The Drowning Man

There was no startle; there was no criticism or exclamations of disgust. No, the response to seeing Quentin was a calm one, sedated by the modern times. Although there was nothing but eerie quiet to be heard, those standing upon the two stages could see hundreds of groups whispering to each other.

"Mr. Prodigal Son," Clemond Oppei continued after a delay, "I must say, you look awfully familiar. Those broad shoulders– those piercing eyes! But most of all, this shiny metal body! Why, if I were a more rash man, I would accuse you of being that cyborg from the Citadel!" That was a cue for admittance, fortified by Oppei's prompt shoving of a sound-amplifier in Quentin's face.

"I-I really d-don't know," Quentin stammered, looking blankly forward, into the mass of obscure faces. He was startled when he heard his own voice echo throughout the area, its volume increased exponentially, so that all of Paria was able to hear him.

"The man is modest, too!" Oppei remarked, stretching his lips thin into a savory grin, "That must be another tally for nature, with nurture left in the dust."

The FFC leader looked back at his parallel, continuing, "This one here clearly is the same child who, years ago, you famously saved. Tell me, Mr. Rollof– How do you feel about having your precious secret out in the open, for all to see? You knew you couldn't hide him forever."

John C. Rollof was never known to be a soft-spoken man. He had always been quick to quote Paul and rapid in his release of holy perspectives on this ungrateful world; however, this was a special time for this certain televangelist. His mouth hung open, slack, his expression a mix of embarrassment, pity, and anger.

"I have nothing to hide," Rollof began once he had managed to compose himself, "His name is Quentin. I took him in, and it was by his own request that he stayed in the Citadel for as long as he has. He chose to be away from this sinful world. He knew that it would be best to stay in his safe haven– Didn't you, Quentin?"

The cyborg glanced over at his Father, for suggestions. Rollof gave a smile and a nod, a sufficient prompt. "Yes," Quentin answered, "I knew I was safest there. There are dangerous people out here, people who would hurt me. My... My Father has been most kind to me."

Oppei raised his brow to these remarks but said no more of it, instead darting over to Quentin's other side. "Clearly, though, you changed your mind and came here, and now that we know just who you are," He continued, "Do you, Quentin, accept the reward?" Instantly the subject looked to his master, but his eyes were brought back to this other man– who was shaking his head– when he felt a stern hand upon his shoulder.

"You have free will here, boy," Oppei explained with a soft chuckle, "You aren't bound by those chains in my company. Unless, of course, a certain individual objects to Quentin having the freedom to choose for himself?"

Rollof was stiff, head tilted tall and mighty. "He has always had free will," he replied simply, stubbornly, "And he knows that he will face judgment for any sins he commits against his Father or a fellow man." Mechanical eyes whizzed away from an unhelpful guide and exposed themselves to the hungry glares of the upper and lower classes.

"I suppose I'll accept the prize," Quentin muttered, to his own disbelief. The crowd fired off with new enthusiasm; if this entity had refused the offer, there was no telling what might have ensued. "But could this really be happening?" Quentin wondered. "Am I really willing to forsake my Father, for this? For a stranger? Perhaps this was a grave mistake; perhaps I do deserve reproach..."

"Ah, good boy!" Oppei cheered, slapping him on the back, only to quickly recoil his hand at the sound of a peculiar clang. He continued, "Essence, please, come closer! Let the viewers have their glimpse of this year's couple." The corporate honchos, too reclusive for up-front participation in the Farceur-Con were at the edge of their seats, a little too interested.

The curvaceous Essence, alternatively, seemed a little pale and slightly timid, even. This was a woman who was always composed and respectfully capable of disassociating herself with the plights of the common man, and yet, even she was shaken by this proposal. She cocked her head to the side, giving Oppei an inquisitive, concerned glance and whispered, "Do I have free will, too?" The FFC leader had been bitten.

"But of course!" he answered, drawing his arm around her waist. "This is only one date– Why, Quentin has only one shot to strike Aphrodite's chord! Such a thrilling concept, no?" The sales-pitch was well received, for his words were met by rapid head nods and the typing of magazine headlines everywhere, reserved for immaterial distribution.

Essence gave a grudging nod and slipped her hand into Quentin's frigid, viscous paw. They were mirrors of the heart, both wanting to retract out of fear– fear of ugliness, and fear of beauty. "Such an adorable couple! So unlikely that maybe, just maybe, it will work!" Oppei commented, "And do not fear, the full duration of their date shall be broadcasted _live_ for all of you to see on November 10th!"

Rollof had five days to intervene. However, in the awkward embrace of Quentin and Essence's hands, he found a facetious spectacle, one which he decided to not interfere in. Quentin had subjected himself to the other world, to the Paria bathed in culture The Citadel refused to foster, and Rollof was remarkably complacent with this.

"On November 10th," Rollof suddenly declared, catching those on and off stage by surprise, "I too will host show for you all. My show, however, will be a live display of miracles, works of God. If you do not believe– if you, in your little faith, have great doubt in the power of Christ in me– then watch the show. Lives shall be changed."

Essence, spinning a faux nail in her locks of blonde-dyed hair, remarked, "It's about time." Quentin looked at the woman, who was slightly below his eye-level, and pondered what such a remark could have meant. Essence by nature was outspoken, and although it was common for actors and actresses to endorse corporations and organizations, she was so vehemently for the FFC that she was almost as much known for her contributions as a social advocate as an actress. Still, despite the frequency of her statements against the church, her words still begged for a double-take, and this time her fans even gave her a mild, approving cheer.

With a flame cast behind his eye, Rollof responded, "God's mercy is nothing new, my dear. The parables of Jesus– You could learn much from them." His weary eyes fell again upon the woman, drawing them up towards her face with modest resistance. Her gaze was captivating and passionate, relentless in its ability to confound the televangelist. Something made her different, but he could not dissect her for reasons that escaped him.

"No, no! I don't need to hear anything more about that. No, instead, let me tell you a parable, Mr. Rollof," Essence started up vehemently, "Let's say there is a man drowning in the river, and you are a witness to this, the only one, maybe. You then stop what you are doing, fall down, and begin to pray that God will save this poor man. All the while, as you are praying, the man drowns in the river. There is your parable, Rollof." Exasperated, she screamed, breaking the rehearse, "Some things are man's responsibility, not anyone else's! Sometimes you have to take charge yourself! Your people are dying all around you, suffocated by poverty, yet you do not use your leverage. You call yourself a holy man, Mr. Rollof, but I think you're nothing more than a pig."

Words left her lips no more; Essence hopped off the lighted stage and disappeared within the crowd. Thankfully for her, they were all too stunned and energized by her outburst to react as they normally would; graciously the men, heretic and Christian, who would have normally grabbed her, did not.

That was the first night Rollof decided not to visit Quentin. The misshapen figure, altered forever since the day of his family's murder, had thrown himself onto the floor yet again, wrapping his body only in a thin blanket. It was cold in the attic, but Quentin had adjusted well.

Rollof had essentially put Quentin under house arrest (more so than usual), to such an extent that a guard was stationed outside the door. His placement was purely symbolic, for there were so many security systems in place within The Citadel that it would have been impossible for one to enter the building if he was not wanted, let alone get past the metal door's lock.

It was just shy one hour post-midnight when Philip Obone slipped into the room. He was a fair-skinned man, age 25, dressed in the sleek, silver suite of a Brigade Captain. A silver cross hung from his belt from a chain, dangling next to the holster of his weapon, a device that could send gravity-altering waves in a given direction. In his second holster there was the very same weapon that had claimed Quentin's parents. The guard who had been ordered to make sure that no one would enter Quentin's chambers– or for that matter, leave the chambers– had himself intruded.

Furtively he strode inward, drawn to the roaring mass on the floor. Careful to dodge the wires and cables that lay scattered along the floor, the captain said hesitantly but boldly, "Quentin, wake up." The beast did not stir. "Quentin!" He barked more daringly, "You idiot, wake up!" Obone sent his boot flying into the other's side, abruptly startling the poor freak into a state of awareness.

"Wha-what's going on? Who are you?" Quentin was on his feet now, retreating to the wall farthest from the unknown.

"My name is Philip Obone," The man answered, backing away himself, hands slightly raised, "And I'm not here to hurt you, so please, calm down. You've no reason to be afraid. I'm one of Rollof's most trusted men. I've been guarding your door for the past few hours."

A curious Quentin asked, "Anyone can claim to be a man of God– why should I trust you?" It was a strange question, but Obone answered it unflinchingly and with style.

"I honestly couldn't care less whether you trust me or not, so long as you hear me out," was his reply, bringing up another matter worth inquiry.

"Just tell me why you are here," Quentin ordered, his heart beat returning to normal. If this man meant him harm, he assumed that the weapon already would have fired.

"That woman... The one you have been set up on a date with," Philip nervously explained, "Essence, I mean... You see... I wish to make a deal with you. Let's face it; if you go on a date with her, you'll make a complete fool of yourself. She's– she's out of your league... You know it as well as I do, and I think we can help each other out a bit. I will... spare you the embarrassment and get you out of this whole mess, and to make it even better, I-I'll help you get out of this place. Forever."

Quentin stirred into an upright position and continued to question him, asking, "Who are you, to say these things? Who sent you?"

"I am speaking for no one other than myself," Obone replied. "My heart sent me. I used to be a writer, and Essence, although she did not know it, was my muse– I wrote the greatest romances in my career with her on my mind. But Quentin, people do not appreciate it any more. It is ironic, too– Essence's films killed my career. My only hope was taking a military job with the Citadel, but I can't shake her away from my thoughts. I need this more than you do."

Quentin, after thinking on these things, said, "My Father has kept me safe for all my life, and the one day I disobey him and leave, I am treated like some sort of king. But, it comes with some sort of price, doesn't it? I saw it in the way my Father looked at me– This is not my fate. I am meant to stay here; I felt it when I held Essence's hand. She is of another caliber. I only hope that my Father can forgive me; I just wanted to meet her, and maybe experience some of the Heaven he is always telling me about..."

The room's conditions were optimal for sleep, but John Rollof refused to drift away. His mind itched curiously, holding him in uncomfortable suspense. The middle-aged man clung to his satin sheets, imagining in their place a scarlet dress. In a tangled mess he laid without conscious awareness of the connections he was making until, suddenly, his eyes flung wide open.

The man gently released the sheets, muttering to himself, "Dear Lord, my God, please hear me out... Satan is tempting me, and he's using the entire world against me. The weight of it is all upon my shoulders, and I do not know how much longer I can stand firm in You. You have set me apart as a man in Your image, surely, but these thoughts of Essence– they are not of You, are they? Please, Lord, save me from this evil! Essence, that wretched woman, is Satan's tool– Expel her, please, if it will save your lamb! Cast her into Hell, where she belongs, if that's where she needs to be for me to find respite... Give me the strength to overcome; give me the forgiveness I deserve as Your messenger on Paria..."  
The master bedroom of the Citadel cast no light upon John Rollof. The corpse-white image of the church leader lay whimpering in abyssal woe. He had discovered lust, a delightfully new sin. He had tasted the lips of Essence in his dreams, and he was not satisfied; in fact, his dreams made him all the more desperate. How the young woman had managed to chisel through his chaste-minded core and given him away to cognitive dissonance, Rollof could only speculate.

"Dear Lord," He continued through tears as he finally drifted off into sleep, "Why have You forsaken me now, after all these years? I have atoned for my sins and raised Quentin as my own, but now... Why, Lord, have You allowed this to happen? How, Lord, can You stand to see Your beloved child suffer? I am a sinner, God. However, thanks to the sacrifice of my Savior and Your son, Jesus Christ, I am blameless in Your eyes. I have been forgiven. I will be forgiven. I beseech You, forgive me! Forgive me– please! Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin.."


	4. Unnecessary Parts

Unnecessary Parts

November 5, 1605. June 28, 1914. December 7, 1941. August 6, 1945. August 9, 1945. October 6, 1981. September 11, 2001.

Information perceived as irrelevant is dissolved through a solution known ubiquitously as time– truly, a more potent solvent has yet to be discovered. A certain rare sect of society, however, known as the intellectuals, continuously have strived to hold onto that knowledge tightly, for better or worse.

It was as such that John Rollof and Clemond Oppei knew of all of those dates, as well as a considerable number of others. It was as such, also, that Philip Obone and Essence were unaware of this information. As important as is it is to know dates and historical facts, however, more important is the direction in which those facts are carried.

Cue November 10th, 11am Standard Parian Time. Men in sterling robes were frantically searching the Citadel for Quentin, who had managed to slip between Rollof's toes. "It is a matter of the highest priority to find him," Rollof had declared to his loyals, "For our very public image is at stake."

In a fit of stinging irony, however, Quentin had not even a fleeting interest in laying his Father's name to ruin, although certainly he would have been able to do so, albeit unwittingly. It was not so much that Rollof had done anything illegal, for truly, it was of common consensus within the Citadel's purchased government that certain individuals by logic could not break the law. It was not even a correct question, to even ponder whether or not Rollof had committed a crime. He was simply not able to do so.

Rollof had treated Quentin in questionable ways, even if Quentin himself did not question them at all, and through proper prodding from Philip Obone over the course of a handful of days, there had been a sudden change in thought. If anything, his curiosity was given more of a chance to flourish, and now Quentin like a child wondered if there were better masters in the mass of Paria than John Rollof.

"So this is the place?" Quentin asked, timidly brushing his hand against the inviting metal door of the FFC headquarters, "My Father described it a little differently."

Taking his own hand and pressing against the frame, Obone retorted, "Heard they took down the thorns and removed the pit of fire last week. Budget cuts, you know."

Quentin fed the man an unsure nod and proceeded to give the touchscreen suspended next to it a fierce, nearly destructive prodding. Upon pressing a few buttons on the flat control panel, he had managed to send a message into the building that he, along with Obone, was requesting audience with Clemond Oppei. In the time it took for the machine to respond, they both eyed a sleek screen on the building's side, which displayed the flashing word "Fate." Obone was intrigued by it, as he was a man easily intrigued, but for Quentin, it left only more questions.

After a few seconds, the door slid open, followed by a pleasant chiming.

"Welcome to the Freedom For The Future Covenant Primary Station."

A soothing female voice was projected at them, startling Quentin, who abruptly began to search the room with his eyes for the source. It became apparent as the voice continued, however, that it was but a machine that was speaking. This entire building had an incredible artificial intelligence system built into its circuitry, and clearly it was the one sorting out the commands issued to it on the control panel.

"We are happy to see you, PHILIP OBONE and QUENTIN again. If this is your first visit to our home, please indicate so now." Quentin was about to shout out a response, but Obone's hand kept him silent. Even as the machine awaited its answer, it was scanning the appearances of the guests and analyzing them, comparing their faces and frames to that of every individual in Paria who was in the building's database. After taking in realistic, potential weight gain and weight loss into consideration, the AI determined that each individual matched his declared name. Now all they had to do was pass the DNA test.

From the floor a lanky, metallic arm with one needle-like finger emerged. Without hesitation it pricked Quentin and then, after sterilizing itself by heating its own tip to a simply outrageous temperature, stabbed into Obone. The wincing pair then could only watch as the arm retracted back into the floor, the calm voice explaining, "Sorry about the inconvenience. DNA testing is standard protocol, to ensure your safety and the safety of our facility."

In striking manners, the FFC headquarters was a replica of The Citadel. Everything was of that same silvery hue, and the few workers scattered throughout the building– the ones who could be seen on the upper floors above, scurrying to and fro– were dressed uniformly, just as much so as those employed by John Rollof.

Obone and Quentin stood patiently on a moving track, kept tightly in place by the bars that were to the left and right of the traveling path. There came several points, as they proceeded across the first floor, where the path branched off into several different avenues. The building's AI, in compliance with the pair's request, directed which path they would be led down.

They were even escorted up escalators, which were part of the continuous stream of pathway. With impressive velocity, Quentin and Obone made it to Oppei's office.

"Here is your leave. Thank you."

Oppei was accustomed to receiving a plethora of guests each day, and certainly, today of all days he expected a surge of company in his office. However, he had not anticipated this bunch. When they entered, the man was filling out paperwork on his desk, fervently at work on a script for his own narration of the night's processions.

"Quentin!" Oppei exclaimed, splattering a smile upon his face, "Philip! Why, good morning to you both! Please, sit down!" Obliged, they did as they were asked and listened as the public persona asked, "What brings you here, on such a vivacious day?"

And so, with no further prodding, Obone spilled out his request. The details emerged, laced with proposals on how to properly handle each potential alteration in Oppei's original plan, and the FFC leader's saucers dared to expand with greater alarm after each notion.

"Quentin, do you truly wish to forfeit this opportunity?" Oppei questioned, nearly falling off the end of his chair in his intrigue. Incredulously, the cyborg responded, "Yes, I would. S-she doesn't want to be with me, and I don't want to embarrass either of us."

Resting his brow on his own palms, Oppei began, "Of course she doesn't want to be with you!" He slammed his hand down on the desk and leaned forward. "That's the point! You have to turn her mind and heart towards you, Quentin. Don't you understand? That is the plot, our selling point. Do you know what removing you from the show would to our ratings? There would not even _be _a show!"

Quentin shook his head, replying, "I don't understand, sir." He looked towards Obone for an explanation, but one came soon enough from the FFC leader.

"Originally I had anticipated an average lump in your place," he continued, "But instead, I got you. Quentin, you don't know how happy I am for that, yet still, I have lost sleep over this. Philip, you know what I mean– you used to be one of our best journalists, always tuning reports to suite our message. It took time and effort for you to spin the stories in your creative manners, but I can't expect you, Quentin, to understand a writer's anguish. I have worked tirelessly on this program, which tonight is going to propel the FFC eternally into the mainstream consciousness, and once we draw their eyes away from Rollof once– just once – never again will he be able to take over. Quentin, you would be the final blow to this hideous theocracy. You owe it to all of Paria to stay put!"

Sensing Quentin's discomfort, Obone interjected, "Stop this, Clemond. Can't you see that he's conflicted enough? Bad enough he is pestered by Rollof, but you as well? You are an idiot; this is just a show, like all of my stories were merely stories. A show in itself can't take down what Rollof's built up, and no matter what you tell yourself, you know deep down that this is all futile. This isn't going to ignite some revolution. All that would change here is how many people watch your show and just how mediocre your reception will be. It's always the same. Your fanatics will love it, and your enemies will hate it."

Exasperated, Oppei retorted, "This is revolutionary! It is going to take down a dictator! So long as I proclaim it, so shall it be; so long as I reject your petty accusations, so shall we win. A perfect program such as tonight's will latch onto those remaining undecided fellows, those who would be the deciding forces in an all-out war, and once they are on our side, they won't be weaned away."

By this point, Oppei had placed his hands firmly on his desk and was threateningly leaning over to glare into his verbal opponent's eyes. This was his battleground of choice, and so he was more than willing to instill fear in his target. His mild restraint and partial civility during Farceur-Con existed only at events such as Farceur-Con.

"A dictator?" Quentin repeated, questioning, "What gives you the right to say that about my Father? He is a kind man. He has given me a home, kept me safe, and taught me so much. He has helped out Paria's people and has given them safety from criminals and demons."

"This is hysterical!" Oppei commented, spontaneously guffawing, "He is a tyrant, Quentin! He murdered innocents without sensible reason and stole Paria from its people without a sound purpose. Worst of all, he's a lunatic Christian, and just like the rest of them, he is going to do anything in his power to impose his narrow views on us all. If he has his way, we will all become mindless drones."

Obone, donning a smug flare, interjected, "And if you have your way?" The question fell stale, for at this time Quentin provided an interruption, by rising suddenly from his chair.

The cyborg said, quaking, "I won't listen to this. Thank you for meeting with me, really, but I can't take it. I can't handle you speaking about my ma– father... like this."

A metal door clicked shut, and so a Captain of the Brigade was left alone with the most vehement enemy of the Brigade itself. The immediate silence was awkward at best, electric with angst at the worst. Neither party wanted to relinquish their desires, and such rivaling ambitions were bound to conflict in all the worst ways.

"Essence is a beautiful woman," Obone, the braver of the two, murmured into the still air after a cautious delay, "I've seen every film she's been in, even when the ratings were low. She carries herself with so much power, yet grace... she pulls me in– hear me out, Clemond. I just want a shot with her. I don't want to watch her from far away anymore, and this may be my one chance to be with her, even if just for one night. I love her."

A smirk was portrayed on Oppei's lips, a mark of true cynicism. "Love is nothing but brain firings," He chastised, "An evolutionary tool to encourage procreation. What matters isn't love but being at the top. That's all that ever matters. Love is a good tool and certainly a worthy subject and plot device, but love never saved anyone."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Obone reclined in his seat, letting the words he received soak in. "You're lost, aren't you?" the Captain whispered, sensing for once his place in the world, his own purpose, "You know it, too, don't you?" He sensed, at that very same time, Oppei's place as well. It was a relieving epiphany.

The FFC representative said no more; he merely reached into one of the drawers of his desk and kindly offered Obone a plastic, blank expression. "You believe in Hell, right?" He asked, still shifting through the items in his drawer.

"More so now than I ever have," Obone replied, hand on one of his holsters.

"Then be sure to bribe the devil into giving Rollof the deepest, darkest trench to spend eternity in," Oppei continued, "Once you get there."

Frantically Oppei leapt out of his seat, banishing the chair to the back of the room with a stern shove. From the drawer he snatched a knife of sorts, complete with a blade that emitted a radioactive glow. Truly, this weapon had radiation to it– A simple stab wound could unleash long-term damage that would last decades, assuming the target lives, after the wound itself had healed up.

In turn, Obone had drawn forth his gravity-manipulation device and had already fired a blast from it before Oppei could even make another move. His aim proved true; the beam struck his target and loosened the gravitational hold on his body.

Thus Oppei unexpectedly rose, shouting as his head was thrown at the ceiling. As if fastened to it by nails, he was forced to remain there, completely at Obone's mercy. "I am going to guess this isn't part of your plan," the Captain taunted, already pulling out his other weapon from its sheath.

Adapting to his situation, though, Oppei was quick to conceive a solution. Although his body was bound to the ceiling, once an object was able to leave his body, it would be resistant to the power of Obone's weapon– this was the theory, at least. If he was wrong, he would have the satisfaction of at least being his own demise.

Knowing that this was his only chance to survive, Oppei hastily and powerfully launched his knife towards Obone. Thankfully for him, it did not go flying back at him; rather, the weapon continued on its course and was flung straight into Obone's vitals.

With a blade now jutting out from his neck, Obone collapsed, all at once harmlessly dropping his two weapons. Oppei fell also, and once he regained his senses and composure, he motioned himself towards the body. The leveled chest proved it, as well as the endless stare of his eyes– Philip Obone was dead, and thus incapable of directly interfering in Oppei's plans. The victor took hold of the silver cross dangling from Obone's belt and ripped from its chain, and raised it to his eye-level.

"Love," Oppei mused aloud, "Look at where you are now. Lights, cameras– again they eclipse you."

And all the while, as a plan was devised to maintain a murderer's innocence, Quentin found himself running out of the FFC building, a thousand thoughts pounding through his grey matter. "I have to speak with my Father," He said to himself as he slid out the door, "I have to warn him. I have to do something. I have to save him."

Paria– a hub for advancement, apathy, prejudice, and progress. If Clemond Oppei and John Rollof continued with their programs for the night, the chance of there being an all-out war in the near future would skyrocket. It would be the first tremor to shake the world, and if Oppei was even half-correct in his predictions, an empire would fall. And with the Citadel, so would the good in religion and faith, the good in some select fundamental principles, and half of the valuable perspectives and opinions in existence crumble.

But Quentin was only thinking of this in childish contexts; he acted not upon planning, but on intuition. He knew he was doing right, but he knew not why. His mind was silent, and at the very moment he stopped speaking with himself and started to focus on his task at hand, all he heard was the voice of the FFC building from behind him.

"Thank you for visiting the future. Have a nice day."


	5. Dividing By Zero

Dividing By Zero

While his silver-clad followers marched throughout the Citadel and into the streets, bearing high-powered laser rifles and bitter objectivity, John Rollof had discovered personally the reply of a recent inquiry.

The 43 year old televangelist had means of contacting any soul in all of Paria, through his online database dominantly. In a few seconds he had a means to reach this individual, without much real prior knowledge of the person. It was as such for all; everyone belonged to everybody. Utopias cannot afford secrets or privacies, and after Rollof's rather large, half-mechanical one became a selling news story, he had learned to embrace this simple truth rather than rebel against it.

Powerfully dainty, his guest pushed the door open, sending him a lipstick-stained, sultry sneer. Her blushing dress hung tight around her frame, emphasizing the curvature of her body– As if Rollof needed any assistance in focusing on such matters. "Hello, sweety," The woman chimed, gently closing the door, "Hope I'm not too late."

Rollof, suppressing his instinct to childishly grin, stood proper and returned, "Not at all, my love. Please, make yourself comfortable. I'm glad that you accepted my terms. You will receive the payment afterward, rather than in advance. It would terrible for you to leave too early, you know. I want to make this worth my while."

When Quentin knocked on the door, Rollof's hand was upon Essence's shoulder.

When Quentin knocked on the door, Rollof could be heard muttering in his raspy, righteous tone, "Treasures gained by wickedness do not profit."

When Quentin knocked on the door, Rollof whispered into Essence's ear, softly, seductively, "But I can deliver you from death."

When Quentin ripped the door off of its hinges, Hell's fire found a home in John Rollof, next to Tartarus' iced-over stake.

"Quentin! H-how did you– Where have you been?" Shrieked the televangelist as he rushed towards the door, trying in vain to block the image behind him. The cyborg, looking easily over Rollof's shoulders, bewilderingly asked as he was escorted away, "Father, why is Essence in your quarters?"

Rollof motioned for his servant to hush, but Quentin continued, "I thought no one was allowed in there." He led the giant back to his dungeon.

"That's why there aren't even cameras in there." That would not be enough; not this time, at least.

"I don't understand." Rollof closed the door, leaving himself in the unlocked room with his prodigal son.

"Do you like her, too?"

The fires of Hell were feeling extra bold on this occasion, for they displayed themselves on the front-line, on Rollof's own cheeks. "No," Rollof spat, contemptuously, "You Iscariot! I hate her, as God hates her; as God wishes for her to burn! I was offering her a chance to repent, in private, away from those invasive cameras. Don't put me on your level!"

Clutching his own shoulders, to steady himself, Quentin scurried into a portion of the room worn down from frequent visitation– the corner edging southeast. "F-Father," He whimpered, looking up at the worn-down, war-torn figure, "I am s-sorry. I don't know what I was thinking, Father! I can't even think, Father... These past few days, since I disobeyed you, have been so chaotic. Now I see the error in my ways."

Rendered statuesque, Rollof brought his hand to his heart and a prayer to his lips. "Lord, bless this child," He whispered, "For he has repented." Doves fluttered in Quentin's iron chest as he felt the Holy Spirit– or, perhaps, the Citadel's air conditioning– come upon him. As instantly as this peace fell upon him, this understanding from the Creator, a nearby screen fluttered into activation.

This screen was unique, in that it only turned on during special announcements, breaking news of the upmost importance, and the like. It had been triggered to tune into footage of the FFC HQ, and a scene was portrayed for the two of Clemond Oppei giving a sermon.

"My friends," He began, somber, "This is not a day any of us set out for terrible news, but alas, a fountain of blood has erupted in my own office, of all places. I came to my office, just a few minutes ago, to find a wicked sight– a young man's body, lying in a pool of blood, beaten to a pulp. The man was so horribly beaten that we gathered it must have been a group effort, but when we rolled back our camera footage, we saw only one culprit inside the office at the time of the murder. It was an eye for an eye; I suspect it was out of jealousy. At this very moment, the FFC Vigilante Elite are on their way to apprehend the murderer, but I feel you all should know the name, first. I believe that fame is something only some can handle, and the more savage of beings, the monsters of heart, simply cannot handle such pressures. They crack and rot with evil. It was Quentin, John Rollof's son. He murdered Philip Obone, Captain of the Citadel Brigade."

The screen continued, and the voices remained, but no longer were either of the two in the Citadel's attic listening to the words and meaning behind the continuous speech, as Oppei eventually was replaced by a more composed speaker, one who was not inclined to dab away at his tears from time to time.

"They found a way to use me," Quentin muttered, from his corner, "He still found a way to use me! And now they are going to come for my Father, and for Essence, and for us all, and for me, too."

Rollof caught Quentin by a quivering glare. "You killed a man?" He asked, his hands twitching themselves into fists, "You defile the Lord's name! You are an abomination, Quentin– inside and out!" Dashing forward, the man's claws dug into Quentin's metal shoulders, and drugged with adrenaline, Rollof hoisted the behemoth to his feet.

Quentin stammered, his eyes nervously focusing on the pain centers on his shoulders, "You must believe me, Father! I didn't do it! The man's lying, Father! Who is more trustworthy: him or your son? You know in your heart, father, that I'm innocent. Don't cast judgment on me now! I may be a sinner, but I would never do this. Am I not a beautiful child of God– just like you, like everyone else?"

Slamming Quentin against the wall, Rollof vehemently retorted, "Do not put words in my mouth, foul blasphemer! I cannot stand the taste of them. You have never been beautiful; God set you apart as God set apart Ham. God chooses our fates, and God is telling me that yours is to end in damnation for what you have done! Beautiful? Quentin, if you are beautiful, then beauty isn't pretty. In fact, it is the Fountain of Youth run dry, the broken mirror, the smudge of the poor on gold, the very faces of and very hearts of the vile homosexuals that poison the streets, the spark in deviation's eye– Quentin, you could never be beautiful! I should have killed you when I had the chance, when the corpses of your mother, father, and siblings lay at my feet. I should've ended it then."

Crushed, crumpled, and crippled– Such terms could not even accurately convey Quentin's state of being. It was a scientist's nightmare and a writer's dilemma; Quentin's feelings were indescribable. It had been his impression that Rollof had adopted him from parents who simply did not want him, who were negligent, perhaps, but this revelation indicated that this was far from the truth, that his parents had perished because of Rollof.

"Y-you killed them?" Quentin asked, frozen, "Didn't you? Tell me the truth, please! God can hear all that you say, Rollof!" The televangelist drew back his hand and – Crescendo! – left scathing redness across Quentin's face, a streak that tore through even his heart. That was the wordiest reply Rollof was willing to grace Quentin with, given such an accusation.

Quentin automatically grabbed Rollof's collar with his mechanical arm, using only the little effort necessary, and launched the televangelist away from himself. Rollof landed with such momentum that, when he crashed into the Citadel's main computer, the entire device was obliterated. All of the delicate circuitry that kept much of the building running at once shattered, brought swiftly to ruin. One would hardly know by merely glancing at the pitiful mess that Rollof lay on top of that at one time these devices had been regarded in an almost sacred manner and held up an entire civilization. One would not know that such a wasteful pile was man's greatest accomplishment.

"You hastily edge to violence," Rollof hissed, after realizing that all he had worked for had been shattered beneath him, "As I had expected. But you cannot destroy me; no, I will not go until it is my time. I am invincible, up until the moment God takes me from this world! And as such, in this time I have, I owe it to Him to cleanse this world of those like you, whose mere presence encourages sin! Quentin, you have brought so much misery into my life and now, it is all becoming all too apparent what I must do, to rid myself of you– a true demon! Bid this world farewell, Quentin, for now the other half of you is going to perish!"

Unrestrained, Rollof lunged forward, propelling his feet off the floor as he opened his claws wide for Quentin's fame; but this particular sinner was not prepared to die. Quentin helplessly stepped aside, giving Rollof clear passage to continue on, without the expected tackle and take-down of the frightened former-servant. No, John Rollof continued on– straight into the lone window in Quentin's cell, and he crashed through it, to descend towards the Parian floor he had looked down upon for so long.

At the shattering of glass, Quentin's hair stood on end; he knew little, but even then, he knew that no mortal, even a true man of God, could survive such a terrific fall. After inching his way towards the window, he peered below, only to find himself dizzied. He could not even see the body, only a massive pool of spectators gathering to gawk over the new drama that had interrupted their lives.

Gruesome as it was, and regrettable as it was, Quentin felt a sense of relief rush over him now that this whole ordeal had come to an end. He questioned whether or not it was a sin to feel this specific contentment, but such questions did not last long in his skull.

Quentin abruptly fell to his knees and connected his hands. Head bowed, he began to pray to God, more earnestly than he had ever in his lifetime. Tears came rushing down, sliding down his metal cheeks, and the frigid breeze now let in through the gaping hole in the wall did not help with the chills he felt. His prayer could have gone on for several hours, but it was interrupted in much less time than that, by a sudden opening of his door.

"Freeze, y-you– you freak! Put your hands up, now!"

Such hesitancy could not be found in a hardened Brigade officer and/or killer, and certainly, the mere familiarity of the voice threatening Quentin now was enough to put him at initial ease. This was not the voice of Clemond Oppei, or the haunting whispers of John Rollof; this was an actress who had worked with such famous male leads as George Reiner. It was a woman with an angelic voice– it was Essence.

The trouble was, angels typically did not hold high-powered laser weaponry, and in her hands, Essence kept tight the same weapon that had been both in Philip Obone's sheath and at one point pointed at Quentin's entire family. Essence was standing at the door, make-up running down her cheeks, aiming a lethal weapon at Quentin.

"You threw him out the window," Essence whispered, another wave of fear rushing through her, mixed with pity. "The old man was a creep, sure, but he still didn't deserve that! You're just like Clemond, you know? Don't have the patience to just let a man die. I get that you were jealous of him, because he was about to be with me– just like you got jealous of that Brigade Captain. There was a screen in your father's room; I watched Clemond's speech. You've got some nerve and guts, for a machine. The guy just wanted a chance to be with me, and you turned him into mush. It's freaks like you have that make me worry about the future, you know. Makes me want to never have kids."

Quentin did not even know how to respond to such remarks, for truly, if he would have had any inclination to respond a certain way, he would have reacted accordingly. Instead, though, he just stood there, giving himself at least the dignity to remain on his own feet, rather than in his usual corner.

The sunlight pouring in through the window wrapped itself around Quentin, giving him an illuminating glow. "I did not kill Philip Obone," Quentin finally stated, "And I did not kill John Rollof. I did not kill anyone. I did not do anything to anyone... No. I am a beautiful child of God."

Quentin gulped, closing his eyes now.

"I am a beautiful child of God."

"What are you talking about...?"

"I am a beautiful child of God."

"Just shut up, already!"

"I am a beautiful child of God."

"I am_ going_ to shoot you!"

"What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses his soul? I am not afraid. You cannot break me. I am a beautiful child of God. I am a beautiful child of God. I am a–"

Hissing light bore through Quentin's clothes, cracked into his metal chest, traveled through his inner workings– past wires, past circuits, past valves, and past organs – and bid slumber to Quentin's heart.

A grenade blast: The absolute permeation of a nuclear bomb. Tissue to dust, tangibilities to dust, connections to dust, sins to dust, ashes to dust, dust to obliteration; only feelings, only thoughts, and only spirit remaining. Quentin's body– Dust. No more. There were machine parts on the attic floor, certainly, but not Quentin's body.

Light fluttered by his consciousness. Another indescribable feeling. Waves of colors, of brilliant hues, of memories given new life in death. Death– Quentin would have smiled. To die is to live, to live is to experience, and Quentin knew he had experienced life on the highest level. His prayers had been realized; his tears had been vindicated.

And if Quentin could have smiled, he would have smiled, for certainly a man such as himself would have smiled at the poetic light that he now saw, a mysterious and comforting light– the unmistakable light of the broken mirror and the Fountain of Youth run dry.


End file.
